When I was a little girl, the 70’s were in full swing. I was born right at the edge of the disco era and grew up in a world where Halston ruled the planet, glittering eye shadow and disco balls made the world go around, and everything was insanely glamorous.
I watched as Bob Mackie dress Cher and Carol Burnett in blinding sequins and beadwork, I devoured every mention of Studio 54, I clipped photos of Bianca Jagger and Jerry Hall and Scotch taped them to my walls. My Barbie dolls were glammed out in marabou feathers and sequined fabric remnants that would fall off my mother’s evening clothes. They loved the nightlife, they had to boogie.
I became a tween and teen in the era of 80’s power bitches. I watched every nighttime soap with religious fervor: "Dallas", "Falcon Crest", "Knots Landing", "The Colbys" -- I loved them all.
And then there was "Dynasty". I named my Cabbage Patch Doll Alexis Morell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan. I lived for every Nolan Miller gown with gigantic shoulder pads. I covered my lips in mauve gloss and aspired to the lifestyle. I used to drink my mother’s sun-brewed iced tea from an old crystal bar set I found at a swap meet because it looked like the one Alexis drank scotch from in her apartment. I aspired to meet my own Dex.
My love of glamorous fragrances was born of these mental time stamps. I ingested copious amounts of advertising while watching these programs. I secretly sneaked into Mom’s fragrance cabinet to explore the glitz and glamour of her collection of nightlife-approved scents.
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